Thundering, Thundering, Louder Than Before

Watched the Emmys last night, which only affirmed two things: one, that whoever the Academy members are, they for some reason can watch entire episodes of the Cro-Magnon sitcom Two and a Half Men enough to nominate it for like 37 awards, perhaps nullifying their less-visible righteous admiration for Weeds, How I Met Your Mother (the Sopranos’ silent, clasped-hands tribute bow was a ridiculous anti-climax to the god (GAWD) awful Four Seasons Broadway medley. If there were ever a group of dudes who deserve the ignominious send-off granted Phil Leotardo, etc.).

Second, the broadcast reminded me of two oft-overlooked, really merged into one thing, and inherent tendencies of big entertainment megalopoli (and, I suppose, most large corporations in the glare of the public sphere): self-congratulation and consistent image correction. Like I said, these are two fake boobs on the same orange/tan chest. Like I’m getting to, they also obviously apply to big-ass sad bastard multinational music/entertainment conglomerates (fade out over-extended, super-current introductory tie-in, also: hey, I’ve been gone for a while doing what I get paid for. What’s up?).

Two recent label-related stories—one hard (in news and rigor mortis terms), one soft (in news and pudgy terms)—call to attention a possible (okay, definite) third tine of the big entertainment megalopoli (b.e.m.) fork (yes, a three-tined fork metaphor): complete self-delusion.

(Cue Tony Wilson’s Ian Curtis town crier eulogy clip, segue into commissioned quirky-lithograph style accompaniment of Rick Rubin sitting lotus-style atop, I don’t know…like a pile of rejected demos or something)

The most recent in the New York Times’ Magazine biennial industry puff-piece canon, this one on Rick Rubin (reg. req.) saving Sony/Columbia from their nascent, internally-generated collapse instantly merged somewhere in my brain with the thing I wrote hastily about Tony Wilson’s management of Factory Records, you know, before he died and was eulogized by every person alive. Wilson, or at least the version of himself he approved from 24 Hour Party People, treated his record label like a decade-long performance art gallery residency, and that gallery was the world’s first industrialized city, and that city was transmogrified into Joy Division. In the process, he proved beyond the shadow of a doubt the abysmal profit possibilities of creative synergy as a business model. He made business decisions based on aesthetic considerations, which made him a wonderful public creative-type, and a ridiculously horrible businessman. Remember the scene toward the end of the film, when Wilson is trying to sell unheard Happy Mondays DATs to some investors, and the meeting takes place in an office with a 5-figure sculpture-as-conference-table, leading to Rob Gretton’s attempted throttling of Wilson for sinking the scant Factory profits into an exchange-value piece of statuary? Okay now read this, retyped from the Times piece:

“‘I told the corporate Sony people that we have to get out of our old space in Los Angeles as quickly as possible,’ Rubin said as he disembarked from his Range Rover, which was parked outside a large, one-story former factory that functions as a sound stage. ‘The Sony people thought I was insane. I’m also trying to get them to move out of their offices in New York. That space is tainted with the old way.’”

Then:

“The architects were still daydreaming about where to put the lobby and the conference room in the factory-turned-soundstage when Rubin suggested that they drive over to another potential site for the new Columbia offices…We drove east until we arrived at the former CAA building on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. I.M. Pei designed this curvy, cream-colored travertine structure, and the most dominant feature of the space is its vast, soaring, three-story lobby. ‘This is a significant building,’ Rubin said. ‘How often do you get a chance to reinvent a landmark? Los Angeles doesn’t have too many marquee buildings, and this is one of them.’”

Then a Steve Coogan-as-Tony Wilson quote:

“That is my heroic flaw. My excess of civic pride.”

The word “model” is shared by the art and business worlds, and Rubin, like Wilson before him, seems destined to prove it, sculpting an image from available resources, or perhaps a lack of same. Rubin’s civic pride, which leads to a Wilsonian sort of building-as-symbol, is zero art and all delusion, however, the product of a monster ego, tons of sycophants (no Rob Grettons here aside from the stockholders, who are disallowed throttling privileges), and well, an admittedly pretty impressive commercial track record. Def Jam and stuff got him to where he is today, and gave him the cajones to try co-running a multinational entertainment corporation with a strikingly similar M.O. to the guy who sunk all the money into the RECORD COVERS THAT LOOKED LIKE FLOPPY DISKS. Evidence and Lincoln/Kennedy-type coincidences to follow.

One of Rubin’s first acts? Abolishing jewel cases, going “green.” His second act, equally symbolic and largely pointless? Something to do with deck chairs.

Then: “At Rubin’s suggestion, (Rubin’s co-whatever Steve Barnett) has also set up a ‘word of mouth’ department…(which) will function as a publicity-promotional arm of the company, spreading commissioned buzz through chat rooms across the planet and through old-fashioned human interaction.” The visionary has decreed the institution of a marketing department. With a focus on the Internet, of all places. But (BUT) with a retro-themed moniker to keep everyone’s feet on the ground.

Rick Rubin has never seen American Idol, nor does he recognize the name Simon Cowell. That’s a really, really popular television program, mostly because it actually, for all its faults, seems to embrace what music fans, for all their faults, have to say about the music, for all its faults. The fans actually, literally, have a say in who wins and gets a record contract. They’re not gently nudged in that direction by viral word-of-mouthketing (my term, not his).

In other news that is the same: “We don’t have any titles at Columbia, Rubin explains… “I don’t want to create a new hierarchy to replace the old hierarchy.”

Rubin, like late-Factory Wilson is banking his fortunes on a wildly unpredictable, certainly not bankable, marginally talented anti-star (for Wilson, the Happy Mondays’ Shaun Ryder, Rubin has the Gossip’s Beth Ditto).

Okay, one more thing. The NYT piece is titled “The Music Man.” Is anyone here familiar with that work? The one that the Simpsons’ “Monorail” episode sent up so well? Well, I’m relatively certain they weren’t intending the title with any sort of irony, because there’s none detectable in the piece itself (okay, a little–the Range Rover is mentioned enough to raise an Eyebrow of Sarcasm), but do we remember the plot of that musical? How about just the first sentence of the Wikipedia entry, for starters: “’Professor’” Harold Hill is a con man whose scam is to convince parents he can teach their musically-disinclined children to play musical instruments.” Oy.